


(they say) oh dear child, he's a wild one, he's okay

by bottleredhead



Series: that time a tumblr user/anon prompted me [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 3 AM pancakes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Discussion of Nabokov's Lolita, Enjolras is an insomniac who reads covertly-borrowed books, Fluff and Angst, I don't know how to tag this, Implied (but not actual) Character Death, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, pseudo-cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:26:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wake is held in the main church of Enjolras’ hometown. The pastor is blessing all those who enter and Enjolras’ parents stand with somber expressions in their expensive black suits just inside the entrance, gracefully accepting condolences. A long table at the end of the room offers refreshments and stale cookies. People mill about in a sea of black, and sad faces, a few tears here and there for the dead young man who was troublesome in life but is now a cherubic boy gone too soon.</p><p>Enjolras would’ve hated it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(they say) oh dear child, he's a wild one, he's okay

**Author's Note:**

> Anon asked: "I READ YOUR R DEATHFIC AND I AM HURTING SO THIS IS ME PROMPTING ANYTHING WITH GRANTAIRE BEING CODDLED AND HAPPY. ILU."
> 
> This _does_ have fluff but it's also really angsty at the beginning. The cuddling is at the end, but there's also a conversation about Lolita. I'm not sure if the conversation in and of itself is **triggering** , but the book _is_ about a pedophile and that is argued in passing in this story. Plus, there is character death in the beginning - even though it's actually not true. If you're worried about triggers, jump to the end notes to know exactly what to expect. Otherwise, do read on if you think you'll be fine.
> 
> This work has been beta-ed by the amazing [Jenny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK).
> 
> The title is from **I am Harlequin's** [Wild One](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iW3Ntduox58).

Enjolras looks peaceful in repose; his fiercely beautiful and feminine are features serene. It’s strange to see him without a quirk in his eyebrows, red mouth downturned at the corners as he expounds on the failure on one government or another. He’s as beautiful in death as he was in life, but the calmness doesn’t sit right with him. A small part of Grantaire keeps expecting him to move or speak or clear his throat in that pay-attention-to-me way of his; keeps expecting him to be ablaze with life and the incapability to sit still. A quick look at his friends assures him that they feel the same way.

The wake is held in the main church of Enjolras’ hometown. The pastor is blessing all those who enter and Enjolras’ parents stand with somber expressions in their expensive black suits just inside the entrance, gracefully accepting condolences. A long table at the end of the room offers refreshments and stale cookies. People mill about in a sea of black, and sad faces, a few tears here and there for the dead young man who was troublesome in life but is now a cherubic boy gone too soon.

Enjolras would’ve hated it.

The casket is at the head of the room, next to the podium stained with the tears of those who gave speeches about how Enjolras was a wonderful person, how his death is a tragedy, etc. Grantaire didn’t really pay attention.

Within the casket rests Enjolras, in his favourite fitted red jacked, golden hair as wild as ever, face pale and hands folded in subordination he never showed in life. His blue eyes, never to see the light of day again, are hidden beneath delicate, vein-laced lids.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” murmurs a grey-haired woman in Grantaire’s direction. He turns to her with a glazed gaze, uncomprehending. It feels like the grief is building in a cresting wave inside his lungs. “One so young, gone too soon. He was such a handsome boy. Did you know him well?”

The words jam in his throat, and he chokes on their sharp edges poking the delicate lining of his trachea. His teeth are grinding together, jaw locked lest he open his mouth and let out the keening wail threatening to rip itself free from his careful restraints.

Then Combeferre is there, offering the woman a sad grimace of understanding and pulling Grantaire away from the casket, away from Enjolras’ body – the body which Grantaire wants to grip and shake, to yell at until it shows some sign of life because Enjolras _can’t_ be dead. _He just can’t._

“He’s gone, ‘Ferre,” he whispers, voice hoarse with disuse. “We can’t ever get him back.”

Combeferre’s arm tightens around him, a small comfort to plug up the gaping hole in his chest. Its raw-edged and wide, Enjolras-shaped, and it fucking hurts. “I know, Grantaire, I know. But you can’t let the grief overwhelm you. Enjolras would come back from the grave to yell at you for losing focus of what’s important.”

A cruel laugh escapes his throat before he can tamp it down. Isn’t that cute? What’s important is gone. Fuck, Enjolras is gone. There’s is no point to anything anymore, nothing makes sense, because what’s the point in striving for change and achieving it if Enjolras isn’t there to see it?

Combeferre’s arm slips from around his shoulders, both hands rising to grip his biceps instead. “Of course there’s a point! Do you think Enjolras would be happy to see you - to see any of us give up? He might be gone but we are not. Don’t die before you’ve lived, Grantaire.”

And Grantaire… Grantaire can’t help the heaving of his chest, the tears that have been threatening to fall ever since he learned of the news finally spilling over and biting hot tracks down the cold skin of his face. His body shakes with the enormity of the truth, the fact that Enjolras is dead and gone and that there is no way to bring him back. There can be no deals with a crossroads demon, no amount of begging and praying to a merciful Lord, no matter how much he wants to trade his life for Enjolras’. The thought hurts.

He slumps forward, head resting on Combeferre’s shoulder as Combeferre’s arms fold around him to envelop him in a hug. They both share the same pain, both feel the crushing sadness and the sensation of drowning under the feelings battering them like a ship in a stormy sea.

“I loved him,” Grantaire finally says, mouth next to Combeferre’s ears so no one else can hear this most private of confessions. And isn’t it perfect that they’re in a church, so that the Holy God above might hear these uttered words and take them as the prayers of the fallen? The thought sparks something in Grantaire’s chest. “He was an ass, and I loved him, and now he’s gone before I could tell him.”

Combeferre only tightens his arms in response, both of them breaking down against each other, the only comfort in this bleak time the solid warmth of the knowledge that they have their friends to help them soldier through.

*

Grantaire wakes up with a shuddering gasp, sitting up so fast that his head spins for a while. His face feels wet against his seeking fingers, tears salty where they trickle to his lips. The rushing blood is loud in his otherwise quiet apartment, and he sucks in a lungful of air as his mind repeats a thankful mantra of _he’s okay, thank God, just a nightmare, he’s alive_.

Five minutes later, his heart has calmed down and his breathing is somewhat normal. Yet there is fear bundled into a tight knot in his chest, festering and growing the longer he sits amid the tangled sheets with sweat cooling across his brows. He has to check, just to make sure. Just – just to make sure, he reassures himself, hand already reaching for the phone on the nightstand before he’s made the conscious decision.

He has already keyed in Enjolras number and is on his way to put through the call before a small voice niggles at him. It’s not enough, not nearly enough. You need to see him.

*

Enjolras isn’t surprised when he opens his door to reveal Grantaire on the other side, despite the fact that it is three in the morning. Grantaire’s arms are wrapped around two large, overflowing brown paper bags, his fingers tightening minutely on the crackling material when Enjolras’ gaze sweeps over the bags.

“Grantaire,” he says, taking in the pallor of Grantaire’s face and the bruise-like shadows under the tired eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Grantaire gives him a wide smile, but it’s different from his drunken cocky grin or genuine-yet-rare beam. It looks a little too forced, and there is a tightness to his eyes that Enjolras hasn’t seen before. “It’s three in the morning. That means pancakes.” Then he shoulders his way in, dumping the bags on the kitchen counter.

Enjolras stands by the open door for a moment before shrugging to himself and following Grantaire. “Pancakes? Are you drunk? You know you have a kitchen at your own place, right?”

Grantaire hums in response whirling about the small kitchen as he pulls out a pan, a whisk and mixing bowls. He empties the paper bags, which bear the logo of the nearby 24-hour mini-mart, hands deftly breaking the organic eggs into the bowl. “Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was up. Reading.”

The flour puffs up in a little cloud that rests on Grantaire’s ink-black eyebrows. “What were you reading?”

Enjolras’ voice is only a little bit sheepish as he admits, “Lolita,” and he knows that Grantaire is remembering their discussion-turned-argument about the very same book.

To his credit, or maybe it’s the late hour and tentative peace in the kitchen, Grantaire doesn’t react much. “And how is it?”

“You were right,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes at Grantaire’s careful whoop of righteousness. “It’s still highly disturbing and frankly just wrong at some parts, but Nabokov is a genius. Of course, anyone who’s read Pale Fire already knows that, but there’s something different about Lolita.”

Grantaire is mixing the batter when he steals a glance at Enjolras. Their gazes lock for a moment before Grantaire looks away, and asks in a nonchalant manner, “and what do you think of Humbert Humbert?”

A frown pulls Enjolras’ brows down. Grantaire’s tone is a little desperate, as if he’s striving for a devil-may-care attitude and failing spectacularly. His fever-bright eyes keep darting to Enjolras and away, like they’re playing a high-risk game of poker and Grantaire is determined to win – but there’s also a frantic wonder in that gaze. He can see the sweat dotting the nape of his neck, the slight shake to the artist’s hands.

“He’s vile, of course. Humbert establishes himself as an intellectual. His ironic, self-mocking tone and his complicated word games divert the reader’s attention from the horrors he describes. His skill with language makes him a persuasive narrator, often able to convince readers to see his perspective. I had to remind myself that he’s a sick bastard a few times, to be honest. I still don’t understand why you like the book.”

Grantaire laughs at that, back bowing forward as his hands rise to grip the counter. There’s a hysterical tinge to the laughter, which cements Enjolras’ opinion that there is something wrong. But Grantaire doesn’t seem sick or hurt, and it would be too out of character for Enjolras to ask. So he simply shifts on his stool at the kitchen island and waits for Grantaire to calm down.

“When Lolita first came out, the people were in an uproar. It was too radical at the time, too much of an acknowledgement of pedophiles and their obvious mental illness. It created controversy and was banned in many countries. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I like the book because it survived. It’s a sick book, and Humbert is downright disgusting at times, but at the end, he realises his own faults and psychosis.”

They fall silent after that, Enjolras mulling over the new information as Grantaire spoons pancake batter into the waiting pan. Grantaire’s movements are stiff and limited, so unlike his usual sweeping motions and boisterous attitude. It’s such a strange change that it takes Enjolras a moment to realise that the underlying emotion in Grantaire’s face is grief. Grief is etched into every line of that pale face, aging Grantaire underneath its heavy weight, so much so that he’s moving like a wounded animal.

Enjolras doesn’t realise that he’s standing next to Grantaire until the man in question jumps when Enjolras’ hand touches his. “Are you alright, Grantaire?” he asks, his voice soft and tone gentle as though speaking to an easily spooked creature. “Did something happen?”

Throat working, Grantaire raises his eyes to meet Enjolras’ gaze. This time, when they lock eyes, neither of them look away, and Enjolras can see the overwhelming sadness in Grantaire’s eyes, familiar from when his sister passed away a year and a half back. There’s bleakness to his gaze, too, like all the hope has been sucked out of him and now he’s a shell of a human being. Enjolras’ hand rises of its own accord to cradle Grantaire’s jaw.

“You look as if you’ve seen a Dementor,” he whispers in the sudden silence then almost wants to kick himself, because _Dementor? Really?_

Instead of staring at him like he’s a crazy person, Grantaire’s eyes wander over his face, taking in all his features as though committing them to memory. A small smile spreads across his lips, and his voice is hoarse when he says, “I had a nightmare.”

His words themselves aren’t confusing, but Enjolras is puzzled anyway. Since when have they been close enough that it is Enjolras that Grantaire comes to when he has a nightmare? Despite the strangeness of the whole night, the thought warms something long-frozen in Enjolras’ chest. He can’t help his answering smile. “Let’s add some chocolate chips to that batter.”

After retrieving the bag of Hershey’s chocolate chip that Combeferre had hidden at the bottom of the extra silverware drawer, they work together in peace as the kitchen slowly fills with the heavenly smells of chocolate chip pancakes.

Soon enough, there’s a towering stack of pancakes on each of their plates, the rest safely stored in the kitchen for when Combeferre wakes up in the morning. They settle on the ratty couch Eponine found at a yard sale, unanimously deciding to pop in the DVD of the first season of Game of Thrones.

They make it in silence through two episodes before Grantaire starts tilting towards Enjolras. His head rests on Enjolras’ shoulder, dark curls brushing Enjolras’ ear with each breath. Enjolras pauses halfway through the third episode when Grantaire’s breath eases into the slow cadence of the sleeping. Slowly, he edges out from underneath Grantaire until the man is horizontal, feet still on the floor.

He gathers the dishes and tea mugs to be placed in the sink, deciding to wash them in the morning. He’s halfway to his room before he realises that he can’t in good conscious let Grantaire sleep on the couch – he knows from experience that it provides nothing but a broken back on top of a shitty night’s sleep.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers, shaking the sleeping figure lightly. Grantaire’s eyes snap open, body slowly righting itself. “It’s late. Or early, actually. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Silently, Grantaire gets up and follows Enjolras to his room, but stops at the door. “I should probably go…” he trails off, scratching his head in contemplation.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m not letting you walk home in that state. Get in the bed, stick to your side, and we should be fine in the morning. Just don’t hog all the blankets or I will murder you in your sleep.”

After a moment’s silent deliberation, Grantaire walks into the room, rubbing his socked feet over the wood planks of the floor. He stares at Enjolras in the dim light of the room, seemingly looking for confirmation that this is okay.

Exasperated, Enjolras nudges back the covers a bit. “Get in. I don’t bite.”

Grantaire huffs a laugh, climbing into bed with all the dexterity of one sleep deprived – that is to say, not much. He trips over the edge and lands hard on the mattress, bouncing once before stilling with an embarrassed smile.

“Just sleep, Grantaire.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, on their backs in the double bed so their shoulders brush with each breath. Enjolras can hear the faint sound of Grantaire’s heartbeat in the silence (and wow, he is so not used to this much quiet from Grantaire). It’s a little too fast to be normal, Grantaire’s breaths coming a little too quickly for him to be asleep despite his closed eyes. Enjolras wonders if it’s the proximity, dismissing the thought as soon as it forms. They’ve been physically close before, whether during meetings at the Musain or car rides to various rallies.

“Grantaire?” he whispers.

Grantaire doesn’t reply, choosing instead to turn on his side. His bright blue eyes stare at Enjolras in the darkness, twin beacons of the prettiest colour Enjolras has seen outside of a canvas.

“What was your nightmare about?”

Grantaire’s eyes close at the question, the blue disappearing for a moment. “I don’t remember,” he whispers back but the words sound untruthful to Enjolras’ ears, leaving a foul taste on his tongue. The haunted look in Grantaire’s eyes says that he remembers vividly, too vividly apparently, but he doesn’t want to share.

Once again of its own accord, Enjolras’ hand reaches out to grip Grantaire’s under the covers. He offers a smile to Grantaire’s inquisitively raised brow, but stays otherwise silent. The quiet is peaceful.

He’s about to fall asleep when Grantaire moves, his free hand freeing something from the covers and raising it into a beam of moonlight to see what it is. “Isn’t this my copy?” Grantaire’s voice breaks through his stupor.

Enjolras blinks the sleepiness out of his eyes to focus on the book in Grantaire’s hand, blushing when he realises that it is, indeed, Grantaire’s personal, annotated copy of Lolita. “Oh. Uh, Jehan gave it to me. After our fight. He thought I’d enjoy your personal touch to the book.”

Grantaire’s expression is indecipherable. “And was he right?”

A smile takes over his face. “Most definitely. Your margin notes are very enlightening.”

Something happens to Grantaire, then, because his face shifts. One of those rare smiles spreads his mouth, eyes crinkling as his lips part to show off slightly crooked teeth. Heaving himself up, Grantaire twists so his upper body hovers over Enjolras’ for a moment, smiling mouth pressing a light feather-touch of a kiss against Enjolras’ forehead.

He looms over Enjolras for a moment, but it’s long enough that Enjolras realises that he likes the warmth of Grantaire above him. When Grantaire makes to lie back, Enjolras’ arm twines around his back and presses him down so that Grantaire’s chest is half on top of Enjolras’ own.

“Good night, Grantaire,” he murmurs into Grantaire’s sweet-smelling hair. “Sleep well.”

“Night, Enjolras.”

Enjolras thinks he hears a softly murmured “you’re alive” as he slips away from consciousness, but before he can analyse the bizarre words, sleep has already claimed him.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic starts off with Enjolras' funeral, which is perceived to be real by Grantaire. He breaks down along with Combeferre, then wakes up to realise that it's just a nightmare. 
> 
> So I woke up a few days back from a nightmare in which I dreamed that one of my closest friends had passed away and that I was at his funeral/burial. It was a very vivid dream and I woke up freaked, which got me thinking: what if it was Grantaire and Enjolras? Because I couldn't resist a good angstfest, this fic was written.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! All comments are very welcome :)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com)!


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